Absurdity
by Nova-chan
Summary: Holmes has been transformed into his four-year-old self! Watson and Mycroft work together to try and solve the mystery.
1. Chapter 1

Marill: Heya! This is a story that I've been working on over at the kinkmeme, and I didn't think that I should deprive the here. And, obviously I know that there is nothing logical about the situation. Let's just call it a SciFi/AU and enjoy it, k? ^^

Watson loosened his thick winter scarf from around his neck as he hobbled into the foyer of the apartment. He heard Mrs. Hudson in the next room, bustling about and called out a greeting to her.

He trudged upstairs and entered the sitting room, not really expecting Holmes to be around as his friend had claimed to have had business in the city that day. Watson collapsed into his chair, exhaustion evident in his posture. The cold was dreadfully bad for his leg, which ached and protested any further movements.

Watson reached for his journal which lay on the side table. He halted his hand in mid-reach when he saw a huddled shape under a dark coverlet across the room. The shape was making some indiscriminate movements and was roughly the size of a small child. Quirking an eyebrow, Watson went to investigate.

As he grew closer, Watson could see a small head peeking out from under the coverlet, and two tiny arms holding up an impossibly large medical dictionary. Clearly a child, and most likely one of Sherlock Holmes' street gang waiting to converse with the detective. But how had he gotten in? Surely Mrs. Hudson would not let one of the street urchins upstairs when neither of the tenants was home.

Watson knelt down on the side of the child who was very implicitly ignoring him. The child had dark hair and intense eyes that were scanning the pages of the book as if he were lost in the illustrations and sentences.

Watson cleared his throat to gain the child's attention. "Excuse me, but are you waiting here for Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"

The boy glanced over at Watson. "No. I—" The small boy blanched as he looked up at Watson's face. Watson stared back, unsure of what had spooked the boy. Without warning, the little boy dropped the book with a heavy thud and scrambled on hands and knees underneath Holmes' desk, screaming as he went.

Watson was quite amused and concerned at once. "Is everything all right?" he wondered softly. "I just wanted to find out why you're here, that's all."

The little boy was sobbing and hiccupping pathetically in his huddled position, pressed as far into the side of the desk as he could. "P-please don't get me!" he wailed.

Watson backed up a little. "I'm not going to hurt you, son." He called for Mrs. Hudson, unsure of how he would calm the panicking child. "Where are your parents?"

"I don't KNOW!" the boy cried.

"It's all right," said Watson. "Everything will be fine."

Mrs. Hudson entered the room and asked, "What's going on up here, Doctor?"

Watson had momentarily turned around and the little boy took this opportunity to dash across the room and behind Mrs. Hudson. He clung to the back of her skirts, begging for her to save him from "that man". She hushed him and looked at Dr. Watson with a furrowed brow.

"Mrs. Hudson, did you let this boy inside? He was upstairs when I arrived home," Watson explained.

"No, sir. We haven't had anyone come to the door all morning," she responded.

"I just woke up here," said a small voice from behind her. "Please, I want to go home…"

Watson took a few steps toward them, causing the boy to cry out again. "No, no, NO! Don't come near me!"

"Why are you afraid of Dr. Watson, young man?" Mrs. Hudson asked in a kind voice.

"Because his mustache!" the boy exclaimed. "I don't want him to get me!"

"Dr. Watson will not harm you, dear heart," said Mrs. Hudson. "He and I would both like to help you."

The boy looked at Watson, as if taking him in and assessing him. Watson stared back into big, grey eyes. There was something very familiar about those eyes. They were intelligent and old for their age. As Watson looked into them, he could almost feel himself being evaluated and reflected back accurately to himself.

A realization overcame the doctor. "Oh my word…"

When he was certain that the boy would allow it, Watson moved closer, while still maintaining a comfortable distance. "Could you tell us your name?" he asked.

"You said it earlier," the boy replied. "Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh my goodness!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. She looked at Watson with wide eyes. "Mr. Holmes has a child?"

"I don't think so, Mrs. Hudson," Watson replied. To the boy he said, "Do you have any siblings?"

"Yes," answered Holmes. "My brother Mycroft. He's eleven, but I'm only four." The boy held up four fingers to corroborate his story."

Mrs. Hudson's face became pale and her mouth dropped open. "Dr. Watson?" she said.

"It's all right, Mrs. Hudson," Watson assured her. "We can't do anything at the moment. Let's just try to take things slowly. Please bring us up some tea…well tea for myself and some milk for young Sherlock here."

Holmes looked up at Mrs. Hudson who patted him on the head and removed his remaining hand from her skirt. "Don't you worry," she whispered to him, "Dr. Watson will take care of you until I get back." With that said, she left the two alone.

Watson slowly walked to his armchair and sat, giving Holmes an amiable smile. Holmes stood in the same spot he had been when he was hiding behind Mrs. Hudson.

"You can sit down on our sofa if you like," offered Watson.

Holmes shook his head, avoiding eye contact.

"Ok, then. Sherlock, can you answer a few questions for me?" Watson wondered. Holmes nodded. "Thank you. First, why are you so afraid of my mustache?"

Holmes' bottom lip quivered and he briefly glanced up to meet Watson's eyes. "Because b-bad men have a mustache."

"Bad men?" Watson repeated, frowning. "Why would you say that?"

Holmes' eyes filled with tears and he swallowed a mass in his throat. When he began to sniffle loudly, Watson held up his hands to calm him. "It's all right," Watson said, softly. "We won't talk about it right now if you don't want to. I just want you to know that I may have a mustache, but I'm not a bad man, and I wouldn't hurt you for all the money in England."

"P-promise?" Holmes said, barely above a whisper.

Watson was taken aback by the childish request. However, he quickly acquiesced when he saw how much the promise meant to the small boy.

Mrs. Hudson quickly brought up the tea tray, and even managed to coax Sherlock into sitting on the settee to drink his little cup of milk.

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Watson said as she exited the room. He sipped his tea slowly, wondering what he should do next.

The next thing Watson knew, his friend's four-year-old voice was talking to him from another part of the room. "I like your dog," said Sherlock, patting the bulldog on its stomach. "He's very fat." Watson wondered how Holmes had managed to get that far in such a short amount of time.

"Thank you," Watson replied. "His name is Gladstone."


	2. Chapter 2

Hey guys! Thanks for all the reviews! Hope you enjoy the update! ^_^

Holmes patted the dog for a few minutes before he began to peruse the stack of books on the floor next to him. Choosing one with care, he set in on the floor in front of his crossed legs and began to flip through the pages.

Watson stared in disbelief. "My boy, do you know how to read?" he asked.

Sherlock's big eyes looked up at the doctor. "I can read some of the words, but I mostly wanted to see the pictures," he said.

Watson suddenly felt badly that he did not have any children's books in the house for the young Holmes to look at. Perhaps later he would purchase a few things at the children's store on Birch Road. After all, the child would need some clothing if he was going to be stuck this way for any lengthy amount of time.

Decidedly, Watson addressed the overcast issue. "Sherlock," he spoke carefully. "What do you remember before you woke up here? Do you know who I am at all?"

Sherlock studied him intently for a moment. "Are you a friend of my father's?" he guessed.

Watson pursed his lips in thought. "You could say that, yes," he finally replied.

"I just remember going to sleep at my house, and I had a lot of funny dreams. When I woke up, I was already here," the boy recounted.

Watson sighed. This all seemed impossible. For a minute, he tried believing that this little boy _was_ the great detective's illegitimate child. Something about the boy's eyes convinced him otherwise, however.

"Well, Sherlock, would you like to accompany me to the store? I believe that I need to purchase a few items and I would greatly enjoy your company," said Watson, rising to his feet.

Holmes closed the book in front of him and obediently stood up. "Ok, but can we eat too? I'm really hungry."

"Of course, my boy!" exclaimed Watson, going out into the hallway to summon Mrs. Hudson. Never had Watson thought that Holmes would actually request food in such a way!

"Mrs. Hudson, will you please bring up something hearty for our guest?" Watson asked when the landlady appeared in the door. "The lad is quite famished, I'm afraid."

"Of course, Doctor," she said agreeably before turning back to the hall.

Once Holmes had finished off a steaming bowl of beef stew, he seemed in much better spirits and much more the child that he looked like. "Can we take Gladstone to the store with us?" he asked, looking around for a leash.

Watson chuckled, good-naturedly. "I'm afraid he's a bit old to be walking so far, Sherlock. But when we return, I don't see any reason that we can't take him for a light stroll." The doctor shifted into his heavy coat, buttoning it with precision. He then looked around the room himself. "Sherlock, do you have a coat?"

"Yes," said Holmes, eagerly.

"Where is it?"

"It's on the third peg of our coat rack at my house," he said. "I'm big enough to reach it by myself." His little face glowed with pride.

"Well," said Watson, "then we have a small problem." He looked at his and Holmes' too-large jackets. "Or a big problem, depending on your perspective."

Ultimately, he bundled up the child in one of Holmes' disguise jackets that was a might too small for the adult detective. Little Sherlock was undeniably endearing, the tails of the coat reaching his ankles and the sleeves hanging eight inches past his tiny hands. The boy frowned at having to wear the oversized coat, but was placated when Watson informed him that they would be buying a new one soon.

With a word to Mrs. Hudson, Watson and young Sherlock left the house and headed north toward Birch. As they stepped off the landing, Sherlock's little hand wrapped around Watson's larger one. Watson looked down at the boy, who had seemingly grasped his hand instinctively. The doctor felt a thickness in his throat at the action. He had always been very good with children, but this was a child who trusted him implicitly, and had only really known him for a couple of hours. Or perhaps some part of him remembered…

Regardless, he and Holmes walked the five blocks to the Birch Road children's clothing store. Halfway there, Holmes released Watson's hand and swiftly ran across the road. Watson's heart pounded in his chest as he watched little Sherlock dart between carriages and come very close to being trampled.

"Holmes!" cried Watson, running after the child. "Sherlock!" The boy did not pay him any attention and ran to the other sidewalk, kneeling down to pick up an object.

Watson caught up with him, breathing harshly. He was torn between grabbing the child up in his arms and gripping him tightly and sternly reprimanding him. He did neither. Holmes, after all, was supposed to have some semblance of adulthood and merited more respect than to be swatted on the behind or coddled like an infant.

"Sherlock, _please_ do not run off into the street like that," Watson said. "What are you looking at?"

Holmes held up the shiny object, his sleeves waving wildly. "It's a ring. For a lady," he said.

Watson narrowed his eyes to better focus. "I say, it's a very handsome ring at that," Watson remarked. "I wonder who it belongs to."

"A writer," said Holmes. "I think."

Watson gaped at the boy. _Surely he isn't just a child. He has to have retained some of his skills…but how?_ "How do you know it belongs to a writer, Sherlock?"

"Because it has ink on it," the boy replied.

Watson thought for a moment about the faulty logic there. Perhaps he was just a child now. "Regardless," said Watson, "I think that we should turn it in to the police so that they can return it to its owner, don't you agree?"

"Yes," said Holmes, handing over the ring that was grasped in his little fist. "Let's go!"

Watson grabbed his hand before he could get too far. "We can do that later. First, we need to find you some new clothes to wear."


	3. Chapter 3

Holmes became fussy after trying on several articles of clothing that the shop woman suggested for him. "I'm tired," he complained, yawning. "When am I going home?"

"We'll go now if you want," said Watson, helping Sherlock into his new coat.

"To my house? With Momma and Father and Mycroft and Isabel?"

_There's an idea,_ thought Watson. "We can go and see Mycroft," he said, smiling at Holmes, who looked excited. Watson turned to the shop woman. "Please have all these clothes sent over to 221B Baker Street. Good day, mum."

Watson led Holmes outside and reached for his hand. Holmes protested, saying, "Carry me."

Watson smiled again. He reached down and picked up the small boy, who nestled his head against the doctor's chest and closed his eyes.

-

"Why does Mycroft live here? He's supposed to live with me," said Sherlock as they waited in Mycroft's study.

"I really can't explain it to you," said Watson. "It's very difficult even for me to understand right now."

"Can I play with his toys?"

"What toys?"

Sherlock held up a little magnifying glass to his eye. "You're all blurry."

Watson chuckled. "Oh, _Holmes_…"

A creaking noise in the hallway gave away Mycroft's presence. The door opened and the man walked in. "Dr. Watson, very nice to see you," he said as he ventured further into the room. He sat in an armchair across from Watson, and raised his eyebrow at seeing a small boy rummaging through his things. "And who is this?"

"This," said Watson, knowing that he was going to sound insane, "is your brother, Sherlock."

Before Mycroft could even raise a protest, Sherlock beat him to it. "That's not Mycroft! Mycroft is only eleven. He's shorter and he doesn't wear glasses."

Mycroft practically jumped to his feet, the banter from the child having jogged some sentiment from his memory. "What in the name of…" he trailed off. "Doctor?"

"I was just as surprised when I first realized it too," Watson assured him. "But I have no idea what transpired or who is responsible for this."

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in the background.

Mycroft slowly walked over to his brother. He knelt down so that he wouldn't seem quite so ominous. Mycroft had never been good with children, but he knew the likes and dislikes of his younger sibling. After a moment of scrutiny, Mycroft pinched the bridge of his nose in annoyance. "Doctor, why did you buy him new clothes? You've gotten rid of practically every observable piece of evidence I might have had."

"He wasn't properly dressed for that weather," Watson retorted. "I was trying to take care of him."

"I'm sure he would much prefer a cold to being stuck in this infantile state," Mycroft practically barked.

"I'm not an infant and I can hear everything you're saying," Sherlock quipped, crossing his arms over his chest. He looked adorably frustrated that everyone was talking over him.

Mycroft turned back to him. "Sherlock, do you remember being an adult? You are a consulting detective. Do you know what happened to you?"

"What?" Sherlock said. "I don't know…"

"I've already asked him and he doesn't know anything about it," Watson supplied. "I was just hoping that you might be able to get to the bottom of this matter. Look into his recent cases? I can take care of him if you can do that. I think those are the jobs best suited for us at the moment."

Mycroft rose to his feet, tousling Sherlock's hair as he did, ignoring the small "Hey!" of protest. "Very well, Dr. Watson," said Mycroft. "Agreed."

On the walk home, Holmes was constantly darting off to look at things and climb on things that interested him. So, by the time they made it back to Baker Street, he had become quite dirty.

"You need a bath, young man," said Watson sternly.

Holmes' eyes grew large and he pouted. "But I don't want to have a bath today…"

Watson sighed. _This will be fun,_ he thought sarcastically. "Mrs. Hudson will wring your neck if you track that dirt all over her house," he said. "Plus, being dirty all the time isn't good for you."

"Do I have to?"

"Yes."

"Ok," Holmes groaned. Watson led him to the bathtub and systematically filled it with warm water. Holmes sat sulking on the stepstool next to the tub while he waited.

-

"Sherlock, lean back and wet your hair…lean _all_ the way back…ok…yes, it does smell like vanilla…no, don't…spit that out. You can't drink the bathwater. It will give you a stomachache…now lean back and rinse your hair. Yes, like this. Scrub. Ok. Good lad. Now, take the soap and rub it all over your hands. Good. Now rub it on your face. Not in your eyes! Here, let's rinse that out. Ahh! Let's try not to get _me_ wet. It's not time for my bath yet…rub the soap all over you…arms…chest…under there…belly…I'll help you with your back, just turn around for a moment…let me see your feet…good lord, how filthy! …don't squirm so much, please…it tickles, does it? …oh, sorry, sorry! No splashing. I won't tickle you anymore."

-

Despite his earlier complaints, little Sherlock begged to stay in the tub even after the bath was over. "I just want to be a fish!" he exclaimed.

"Ten minutes," said Watson firmly. "And do not splash. Call for me if you need me, I'll just be in the next room."


	4. Chapter 4

An hour later, Holmes was out of the bath, clean, dry and in his new pajamas. He sat quietly on the settee but when Watson saw his head drooping to the side, the doctor announced that it was time for bed.

Sherlock climbed up into his bed and Watson pulled the blankets up to his chest. The boy fidgeted to get comfortable for a moment, then sank into the pillows, contented.

Watson smiled. "Sweet dreams."

"Wait!" Holmes cried, sitting up. "What about my rabbit?"

"You have a rabbit?" Watson wondered.

"Yes. He is a stuffed rabbit with tan fur and buttons for eyes. He always sleeps in the bed with me," Holmes explained.

"Well, I'm afraid we don't have anything like that here," Watson replied with remorse.

Little Holmes frowned and looked uneasy for a few moments.

Watson snapped his fingers. "I know," he said, exiting the room. He returned shortly, carrying Gladstone with both arms. Gladstone looked pathetically bored, all four legs sticking straight out into the air. "How about if Gladstone sleeps in here with you? He's a very good watchdog and he will snuggle right up against your leg."

Holmes seemed to brighten at this idea. "Ok. Come on, Gladstone!"

Watson laid the pup by Holmes' feet. Gladstone reacted by glancing back at Watson and then rolling over onto his side.

"All right, now don't stay up late, you two," said Watson. But, when he turned back to look at them, Holmes' eyes were already closed.

-

Watson was fast asleep when a scream from the other room startled him awake. He wrapped his housecoat around himself hurriedly and rushed off to Holmes' room. By the light of his lantern, Watson could see the poor boy sitting straight up in the bed, his hair damp with sweat.

"Sherlock, what's wrong?" Watson asked in a concerned doctor tone. He wiped away the wetness from Holmes' tear-streaked face with the sleeve of his housecoat.

"I had a bad dream," Sherlock said, his voice quiet and shaking. "It was about the bad man…he was trying to get me…"

"Shh," said Watson, smoothing back Holmes' hair. "It's all right now. I won't let anyone hurt you."

Holmes nodded, exhausted. He slumped against Watson's side and closed his eyes.

"Sherlock," said Watson. "Who is the man you had a dream about? Is it someone you've met before?"

Sherlock looked up at the doctor's face, his eyes confused. "I don't know. I can't remember if I really saw him or if I just have bad dreams about him." Holmes pulled Gladstone closer to him, irreparably tangling the covers in the process.

Seeing that the child was clearly shaken, Watson brought in his heavy armchair and sat in it beside the bed. "I'll stay and watch out for you tonight, ok?"

Sherlock nodded and laid back down. "Good night Watson."

-

An urgent telegram from Mycroft Holmes arrived early the next morning, beseeching the doctor to see him at once.

Watson didn't think twice about letting Holmes sleep. The boy finally looked peaceful, wrapped up warmly in the blankets with Gladstone snoring beside him. Watson dressed himself hurriedly but quietly. On his way out the door, he spoke to Mrs. Hudson. "I'm going to see Mycroft Holmes. I think he might have found out some information. I'm leaving Sherlock here with you. He's still asleep upstairs. Please keep an eye out for him."

"Yes, sir," she replied.

Watson left the house, confident that Sherlock was in good hands.

-

"Ah, Doctor, I'm pleased that you could come so quickly," said Mycroft once he was seated across from Watson in his parlour. "I have done a lot of foot-work these past eighteen hours, but I think that it has been quite profitable."

Watson leaned in, eager to learn what had become of his friend.

"Three cases prior to his latest, Sherlock was investigating a group of underhanded experimental surgeons. These blackguards kidnapped destitute children and women and forced them to undergo horrific medical experimentation, the results of which were often horrible disfigurement or death."

Watson felt his pulse quicken. "Holmes certainly hasn't mentioned anything like that to me," he protested.

"It was a very delicate and private affair," Mycroft assured him. "A government official apparently hired him, but swore him to secrecy. I was privy to the information because I happen to know the fellow who first contacted Sherlock. Regardless, the group's most recent victim was never found. No traces of clothing, or bodily fluid. However, when Sherlock led the police in to make the arrest, they found a baby—completely unharmed. Now, I realize that this appears to be quite a leap in logic, but the fact is my brother is now 1/9th his age. I have yet to come across any more logical conclusion."

"Was the group arrested?" Watson asked.

"The main surgeon and the financier were both hanged. Most of the other group members scattered and have yet to be found," Mycroft replied.

"What is your proposal?" asked Watson.

-

They spent the better part of two hours discussing their best plan of action: whether to involve the police, whether to uncover more information first, whether it was too dangerous for involvement whatsoever.

A telegram arrived with haste and Mycroft opened it, intrigued. Mycroft's face darkened, and he then passed the letter to Watson.

It read, _Doctor, please return home at once. He is missing. M. Hudson._


	5. Chapter 5

Marill: Pretty short update, but…yeah, enjoy! :D

Mycroft accompanied Watson to Baker Street without question. They were met by a horribly distraught Mrs. Hudson in the doorway. "Oh, Doctor! I've looked everywhere! He's vanished!" Dr. Watson caught her in his arms as she wept.

"Now, Mrs. Hudson, this is very important. Please tell us exactly what happened," said Watson. He steeled his nerves for hers and Mycroft's sakes. He couldn't afford to break down when such an important event required his attention.

The woman took a deep breath and straightened considerably. "He was playing upstairs when I came down to answer the door. When I got here, no one was around. I heard a crash upstairs and the dog was barking furiously. I hurried upstairs as fast as I could, but I only found the dog. Mr. Holmes was gone and the window was open. It was closed when I came downstairs."

Watson tightened his grip on his cane. "We'll go upstairs and look around. Just take a rest, Mrs. Hudson. Everything will be all right."

Watson and Mycroft climbed the stairs in a hurry, Watson in the lead. When they opened the door to the sitting room, they could see Gladstone lying next to the sofa. He whined up at them as if apologizing for Sherlock's disappearance.

Mycroft went to investigate the open window while Watson stood looking down at the coloring pages he'd bought for Sherlock. The boy had apparently been in the middle of coloring when…something had caused him to stop.

"Doctor," said Mycroft, dragging Watson's attention away from the floor. He walked over to the window to stand next to Mycroft. "There's no way that Sherlock could have jumped down from this window," Mycroft said, indicating the height of the window. "Even a full grown man might break his neck attempting it.

Watson's stomach churned with displeasure. "What would you say happened?"

"He has most definitely been taken."

-

"We have to find him! Look for the clues and figure out where he is!" Watson demanded.

"Doctor, please calm yourself. We must, above all else, remain rational," said Mycroft. "More than likely, the party responsible for changing him into a child is the very same party that now has him. If my hunches are correct, I will be able to locate someone who can, under certain persuasion, tell us where to find them."

"Let's go," said Watson, grabbing up his cane.

"No, Dr. Watson," Mycroft argued. "You must stay here in case the fiends send any correspondence-demands, ransom, and the like. I do not believe that they wish to kill my brother, because they've had ample opportunity with him being in such a weakened state. I think that they will ask for something or seek to gain something in exchange for his safe return."

"I don't want to sit here waiting. I'll go mad!" Watson said. He couldn't fathom the thought of staying idle while a very young child—his dearest friend—was suffering at the hands of corrupt and immoral surgeons.

"Wire a letter to Scotland Yard, requesting that they assist us. By the time they have gotten organized and have gotten here, I should be ready to move," said Mycroft. "I do not wish to waste anymore time Doctor. Please stay alert."

With that, Mycroft swiftly exited the house. Watson slumped into a chair, a thousand horrible scenarios playing through his head. He finally forced himself up to dispatch a telegram.

-

Sometime later, forever to Watson's horrible imagination, Mrs. Hudson shakily entered with a letter. "Doctor," she said. "We just received this letter."

Watson took it from her hand and opened it. It was incredibly short and his lungs began to fail him as he read it over again and again.

"Dear Dr. Watson,

If Mr. Mycroft Holmes does not desist in his pursuit of us, he will find his brother—piece by piece."


	6. Chapter 6

Marill: Update time! Inspector Allenford is my creation (*ching*)

Watson ran through the streets of London like a man possessed. He did not care about the looks people gave him. He had to get to Mycroft and warn him about the letter. He had to get to Scotland Yard and spur them to action! He had to find Sherlock before anything more happened to him.

The first place Watson looked was Mycroft's club. The pageboy assured him that the elder Holmes had not returned. Next, Watson scoured the surrounding area and its shops, restaurants, bars and clubs. He couldn't find a trace of Mycroft.

"Where would he go…where would he go?" Watson said to himself as he hustled into a cab. "Scotland Yard," he said to the driver.

"Inspector Allenford!" Watson called to the waiflike man down the hallway.

"Ah, Dr. Watson, how nice to see you," the inspector replied. "You know, we've already received your telegram."

"Yes, I just wanted to show you this letter that I received," said Watson, shoving the paper into Allenford's hand. "The situation is far more deadly than I originally fathomed."

Allenford skimmed the page briefly. "I see," he said, in his calm way. One thing Watson was grateful for was Inspector Allenford's ability to stay level-headed no matter the situation. The attitude was contagious and eased Watson's pounding heart slightly. "Doctor, return to Baker Street at once. Keep your vigil there in case anything turns up. I'll hurry the men along, double time."

"Thank you, Allenford," said Watson. "Mycroft Holmes is attempting to divine the location of the den of kidnappers at this very hour. He was confident when I last saw him that he could easily procure the information quickly."

"Very good," said Allenford. "Then we shall be ready to carry out the rescue."

Watson shook the inspector's hand, and the two men ran in opposite directions to prepare themselves for the ensuing crusade.

As Watson was riding back to Baker Street, he saw Mycroft walking down a side street at a brisk pace. Watson ordered the driver to stop and he started to run after Holmes' brother to warn him about the new development.

Suddenly, Watson's leg struck some dense object that seemed to appear from nowhere and he wildly tumbled to the ground. Before he could even assess the damage to himself, two men were dragging him into an alley. A sweet-smelling, yet nauseating cloth was pressed over his nose and mouth. _Chloroform,_ he knew instantly. Watson clawed at the hands over his face and on his shoulders, but he was eventually overtaken by the chemical and he fell into a deep unconsciousness.


	7. Chapter 7

_Talking all around him. Voices he can't recognize. The scent of damp earth and the unbearable cold of stones against his face._

He fades back into the blackness.

_A child squealing in fear. A child crying his name. More voices he doesn't recognize. The sound of shoes fumbling and scraping against the ground. His eyes open a bare slit and light assaults him. A groan that may or may not come from his own throat. A sickly sweet smell that nauseates him._

The blackness is a much quieter, less confusing place.

Muffled sobs finally broke through Watson's haze. The side of his head felt tender where he had been lying against stone flooring for an unknown amount of time. His entire body felt a little sluggish and was slow to respond when he tried to shift into a sitting position.

"God," he whispered, rubbing dirt and pebbles away from his face. Watson blinked the blurriness out of his vision, and focused on the dimly lit room he found himself in. His ankle throbbed in pain. _What happened? When did I hurt my ankle…_

Watson's eyes tracked a shape against the stone wall across form him. It was a small figure, kneeling. A bag made of burlap fabric had been pulled over the individual's head, and his hands were behind his back.

When Watson noticed the boy's chest heaving and shoulders quaking, recognition finally graced him. "Oh, Holmes! Holmes, it's all right. I'm here, you're okay. We'll be fine." He kept up a mantra of meaningless promises as he scooted over (his ankle wouldn't allow standing) to the panicking child.

Watson choked back anger when he removed the burlap and saw the boy's sallow and fatigued face. Holmes' eyes met Watson's and filled with even more tears that fell down his face and dampened his shirt. A white piece of cloth had been forced between the boy's quivering lips and tied behind his head. Watson's frustration peaked when he began to loosen the cloth and Sherlock whimpered in pain.

As soon as his hands were untied, Holmes threw himself upon Watson's lap, his arms wrapped around the doctor's waist. Watson suppressed a yelp of pain when Holmes' elbow landed upon his sore ankle; he gently readjusted the boy and took him into his arms, trying to calm him.

Sherlock's tears eventually subsided, but he continued to shiver, trying his best to snuggle into Watson's abdomen. Watson removed his coat and draped it over the boy, who was dressed only in his shirt and pants. The room was chilled and damp, and not at all kind in this time of year. Watson could see the beginning of sickness in the child rapidly falling asleep in his lap. His eyes twitched, his nose dripped, his face was red and his body felt entirely too warm, despite how cold he acted. Watson stroked the thick black curls on the child's head for a few more minutes before he decided that he had to find a way to get Sherlock out of that dungeon and into a warm bed.

He moved to place the sleeping child on the floor so he could check out the room, but Sherlock made a groan of protest and clung to him with his tiny fists buried in Watson's pant leg. With a great deal of effort, Watson lifted the boy against him, his head falling against the doctor's shoulder, and stood, placing his weight on his good ankle.

Watson glanced all around him. There were no windows and only a single iron door. Slowly, he approached the door, trying not to further agitate his twisted ankle or awaken Holmes. As expected, he found the door locked and bolted from the outside. Perhaps with the proper tools he could have forced it open, but no such luck in the empty room, his own clothing having been pilfered of all its trappings.

Watson sighed and struggled to the wall with his resting, feverish charge. He slid carefully down the wall and pulled Holmes into his lap once again. Watson could see no choice but to wait and hope that Mycroft would find them.


	8. Chapter 8

Some time later (Watson estimated about two hours), Holmes stirred and looked up at Watson through glazed eyes. "I don't feel good," he said. "I want Mommy."

Watson pulled the child into a tight embrace. He felt a pang of sadness and inadequacy in his chest. No matter how close they had been as friends and colleagues, Watson knew that he could not stand in for a little boy's mother when he was feeling ill.

"Don't worry," Watson said, trying to soothe him. "Your brother is looking for us right now and I'm certain that he will find us soon."

Sherlock's exhalations were ragged and difficult. "Can we go home?" he pleaded.

"Just try to rest," Watson said, pressing his face to the top of Holmes' head. "We'll be home soon."

Watson sighed as the child shut his eyes in exhaustion. He should have kept Holmes at his side throughout the entire episode. Leaving him alone—even under the capable watch of Mrs. Hudson—was asking for trouble. The fiends that had changed him had apparently not tired of tormenting the detective. Watson could only guess about their reasons for bringing him there. Perhaps they planned to change him to a child as well! Oh…/i thought Watson, ithen Holmes and I will simply have to be playmates and grow up together. Perhaps Mycroft will take us in…or Lestrade or Clarky…/i

The door suddenly rattled and creaked. Watson clutched Holmes tightly to his breast, jarring the boy awake in the process. Holmes clung to his back when he heard the sounds coming from the door. Watson attempted to look threatening—not an easy task when sitting on a floor with a swollen ankle and holding a frightened child.

The door was forcefully swung open and several people entered, guns pointed at random directions until the light was brought in.

"Doctor!" Mycroft shouted, leading a herd of policeman into the dungeon cell. "Dear lord, is Sherlock all right?" The officers milled around, checking out the area, some holstering their weapons.

Watson released his breath in relief. Holmes had turned his head at the sound of his brother's voice and had calmed considerably as well. "He's taken ill," Watson replied. Mycroft kneeled beside them and smoothed back Sherlock's hair, feeling the unnatural warmth there.

Mycroft's face softened. "I'm afraid that this was all a ruse to distract us while the persons responsible fled to the Continent," he said grimly.

"So, you haven't found them?" Watson said, shocked. "They kidnapped Holmes—and myself—just to serve as a diversion?" Watson seethed in his anger, but tempered his emotions for Holmes' sake. After all, the boy was quite sick and needed to be put to bed and looked after as soon as possible. Watson's temper flaring would only serve to further upset Holmes. "What do you plan to do?" he asked Mycroft.

"I am going after them with the help of Inspectors Clark and Rosett. I think it would be wise for you and Sherlock to stay safely here, in London," Mycroft replied. "You should take him home and treat his cold. I cannot afford to lose anymore time." The large man stood and nodded to the inspectors that would accompany him. The two men exited the room to get ready to leave. "Sherlock, do not be any trouble for Dr. Watson, have you heard me?" Mycroft said, sternly. At his brother's dazed, open-mouth look, Mycroft softly added, "And please get some rest and recover, my boy." Without another glance, Mycroft left the dungeon to see to his departure.

Inspector Allenford approached Watson and Holmes. "My goodness, sir, we've all had such a fright ever since you went missing! But, good old Mycroft knew exactly what to do," Allenford said with an elfin smile. Watson only stared up at him, too exhausted to exchange friendly words. "Come on then, Doctor," Allenford said quietly. He held out his arms to take Sherlock so that Watson could stand. "Let's get you two home."

Watson cautiously gave up his fragile bundle to the other man. Sherlock grunted and coughed, but otherwise didn't seem to mind the exchange. Allenford was gentle and strong, holding the little boy close to his chest. With the help of an officer Watson wasn't familiar with, the doctor managed to stand and limp to a waiting carriage outside. Once securely in the carriage, Allenford handed Sherlock back to Watson. They all three rode in comfortable silence back to Baker Street.


	9. Chapter 9

Marill: Hope everyone likes the newest chapter! ^^

Watson nestled Holmes into his bed and took his temperature. It wasn't nearly as bad as Watson had initially feared. Watson urged the boy to drink water and some broth and then allowed him to rest.

Other than a few fits of coughing and an hour when he couldn't seem to stay warm, Holmes slept peacefully through the night.

The next morning, Watson woke up to the realization that he was alone in Holmes' bedroom. The boy's little gray dressing gown was missing from the chair where it had lain the previous night.

Watson hopped down from the bed and was instantly reminded of his injured ankle. After holding the protesting joint still for a few moments, he tried again with more success. Hobbling out of Holmes' bedroom and into the sitting area, he found Holmes seated at the table, not eating a bowl of porridge but procrastinating with it.

"Good morning, Sherlock,' greeted Watson amiably. He gingerly sat down across from Holmes.

"My nanny is making me eat this," Holmes pouted. "But I just want to go outside and throw snowballs at horses." He then coughed.

"You've got sugar, cream and cinnamon," Mrs. Hudson admonished, entering with a tray of milk and tea. "I shouldn't have given you all that, but since I did, you should eat it. Besides, you can't go outside today. You're too sick." She served a cup of tea to Watson, who nodded in thanks.

"I'm not sick, and I've got my big coat!" Holmes protested. He coughed again and rubbed his dripping nose with a handkerchief.

"She's right, Holmes," Watson added. "You need to stay inside the warm house until your cold is better."

Holmes sighed and propped his elbow on his knee, scheming up a plan, no doubt. A moment later, he left the table and went into his bedroom, saying "I know what to do."

Watson and Mrs. Hudson exchanged a perceptive smile and waited for Sherlock to return. When he did return, it was almost twenty minutes later and he was wearing every piece of clothing he owned along with a couple of Watson's shirts and the blanket from his bed.

"I'm ready," he said. "I'm going to play now." As he walked toward the door, he kept his eyes on Watson and Mrs. Hudson to see if they would oppose him. Just as he reached the door, he let out a big sneeze. His arms were completely useless to him, being dwarfed in shirts much too long for him. So, unable to reach his handkerchief, he ended up sneezing into one of Watson's shirtsleeves.

"Holmes," Watson said, exasperated. "You can't go outside today. Stay inside and I'll teach you how to play chess."

Holmes sniffed with as much offense as a four-year-old could possess. "I know how to play chess."

The day was therefore spent by playing games, petting Gladstone, gagging on cough medicine and sneaking treats from Mrs. Hudson. Watson watched little Sherlock playing, cringing and giggling and couldn't have enjoyed himself more.

By bedtime, Holmes was exhausted, but still begging to stay up and teach tricks to Gladstone, who humored the boy's efforts, but refused to move. Eventually, Holmes gave in to his tiredness and fell asleep on the floor next to the dog.

Watson gently picked up Holmes and carried him into the bedroom. As he laid Holmes down on the bed, the boy, half-asleep, said, "Wait. What about Gladstone?"

"I'm getting him next. Don't worry," said Watson, pulling the blankets up to Holmes' chest. He left briefly and returned, carrying the overweight dog under his arm. Watson eased Gladstone down on Holmes' side and patted the dog affectionately on the head. He leaned over then and kissed Sherlock on the forehead. "Good night, my dear boy."

Sherlock's eyes blinked open briefly. With a yawn, he said, "G'night, Papa."

At first, Watson was filled with pride and practically floated out of the bedroom. However, in the following minutes, he realized that he could not get attached to the child. Eventually, little Sherlock would leave and be replaced by the era-specific Sherlock Holmes. Watson cursed himself for wondering which he would prefer and sat down to read a medical journal.


	10. Chapter 10

Weeks went by with only a couple of correspondence letters from Mycroft. He had been through France and Germany in search of the villainous society. His most recent letter, which arrived on a warm Friday afternoon, revealed that the trail that Mycroft had been following had split to both Spain and Italy. Mycroft and his colleagues were following them to Italy, while the policemen headed to Spain. It sounded to Watson that the excursion would have made a wonderful vacation.

Mycroft ended his letter in the same way he had been for the past two weeks:

"I am indebted to you for your kindness to my brother during his condition. Make certain that he is fed and washed regularly. If he gives you any trouble, I would like to be informed of it.

Best,

M. H."

Watson folded the letter and set it amongst the others. This business of trying to locate the surgeon society might take months, perhaps even a year if it continued in this way! Holmes might be five years old before a solution was found.

That likelihood became even more so when Watson realized that Holmes' birthday was only a few weeks away. For once he might be able to throw a party that the stubborn detective would actually enjoy!

Watson's mind schemed up all sorts of scenarios that would be exciting party ideas for the young Holmes. So enraptured in his plan was he that he didn't notice Mrs. Hudson coming in. She dropped the mail on the table, startling him.

"Oh, Mrs. Hudson, thank you," he said. "What are we to expect for dinner?"

"I'm making roast beef with peas and carrots," she replied. "And a carrot cake for Sherlock, as he does love it so." She smiled. "Where is Mr. Holmes?"

"He's been in his room for a few hours now," said Watson. "Haven't heard a sound from him in a while."

"But isn't that strange?" Mrs. Hudson asked worriedly.

"May be a little strange for _him_," he nodded toward Holmes' door, "but it's perfectly normal for Holmes."

"I'm just going to check on him to be sure," said Mrs. Hudson. She knocked and then entered the room quietly in case the boy was asleep. A couple of minutes later she came back in a nervous manner. "Doctor, he's gone!"

Watson rose to his feet and set down his book. He and his landlady searched the flat high and low but couldn't find Holmes.

Watson returned to the sitting room and bellowed, "Sherlock Holmes, if you can hear me, I want you to come to me at once!" There were no sounds of rustling clothing nor of loathsome feet.

_Where could he have gone? _wondered Watson.

"Doctor, come here quickly!" Mrs. Hudson shouted from the bedroom. "His window is open!" she said once Watson had come in.

Watson leaned out the window to see if Holmes might have climbed down somehow. It looked precarious but not entirely impossible. Watson frowned. _Where would he go? Why did he leave here without telling me first?_

"Mrs. Hudson, you stay here in case he returns," said Watson, putting on his coat. "I'm going out to look for him."

Watson appeared calm and resourceful to Mrs. Hudson, but in all honesty, he was terrified. What if Holmes had gotten himself lost? What if he were hurt? What if any remaining surgeon society members happened upon him?

As soon as Watson stepped onto Baker Street, one of the Irregulars came up to him. "Hullo, Dr. Watson," the boy, Cornelius, said with an amiable smile.

"Ah, hello my boy," said Watson. "Have you seen a very small boy, about four years old with dark hair, running around here?"

"You mean Harold?"

"No, this boy is new. He has nice clothes on and he probably came out of Mr. Holmes' window," said Watson.

"Can't say as I have sir," replied Cornelius. "But I'll keep me eyes open."

"Thank you," said Watson, handing him a sixpence. The doctor began his exhaustive search of the city, knowing that the help of the Irregulars would find Sherlock faster.

/

Watson returned at almost dusk, feeling very much a failure—to himself, to Mycroft and of course to Holmes.

As soon as he turned on Baker Street, three boys came running up to him. "Doc! Doctor, we found him!" a gangly, red-headed teen announced.

"Oh, thank goodness!" Watson exclaimed. "Where was he? Where is he now?"

The smallest of the three boys piped up. "'e was sleepin' out be'ind your 'ouse. Cornelius and Franklin tookim inside to rest." The boy was proud of having caught Watson's full attention.

"Was he hurt?" Watson wondered, trying to make sense of the boy's naïve phrasing.

The red-head spoke up then. "He wouldn't wake up, that's for sure. Your landlady gave such a tizzy when we brought him in."

Watson was already walking toward the building. The boys followed him, chattering nonsensically about the incident.

"Thank you boys," Watson said with his hand on the door. "I'm going to check on him now. You can all inquire after his condition tomorrow morning."

Mrs. Hudson met Watson at the door. "Don't worry, Doctor," she assured him, taking his coat. "He's just had a nasty bump to the head is all."

"Oh, thank heavens," Watson murmured, ascending the staircase.

He found Holmes lying asleep amongst pristine bedclothes, although the boy himself was quite dirty. Watson felt his face for fever and checked his pulse. Both were normal. Watson carefully poked at the bruising knot on Holmes' forehead. The pain from this procedure had the effect of awakening Holmes. He groaned and held his head, squeezing his eyes shut.

"Sherlock!" Watson exclaimed. "I'm so glad that you're all right." He stroked Holmes' hair gently. "What were you doing to get into so much trouble?"

Sherlock blinked the cloudiness away from his eyes. "There was a little snake. He was crawling up the side of the house and I wanted to see where he was going. So I climbed out after him, but I got stuck on the side of the house. I tried to jump to a tree and climb down but I fell. Now my head hurts a lot."

Watson sighed. "Let's try to be more careful from now on, okay?"

"I know," said Holmes meekly. "I'm sorry."

"It's all right, my boy," said Watson. "Now, we need to get you into a bath."

"Oh no!" Sherlock whined.


	11. Chapter 11

Marill: Yikes! I haven't updated in like a really long time! I'm sorry, I've been writing on something else. But, I'll try to balance my time between this and the other story from now on. ^^ cheers

/

The next day, four little boys came knocking at the door to 221B. Mrs. Hudson smiled at them, feeling uncharacteristically welcoming toward Holmes' Irregulars. "Hello, boys, I suppose you're wondering about your friend?" she said.

Cornelius, who was spotted with dirt all over his hands and face, said, "Yes, Mum. We was all hopin' that he was feelin' better."

"I'll go and ask Dr. Watson for you," she said.

Before Mrs. Hudson could make it up the stairs, Watson emerged from the sitting room. "Are those the boys?" he asked. "Ah, good morning, chaps!" he greeted once he peered down and saw the four stragglers in the foyer. "Come on up, Sigerson is feeling much better this morning."

Watson had discussed with Holmes the reasoning for the deception of his identity. Whether or not Sherlock had understood his intentions, he went along with the new name.

When Cornelius and the three other boys, who had found Sherlock the previous evening, entered the upstairs door, they found "Sigerson" sitting on the floor with his coloring pages.

"Good morning, Sigerson," said Franklin, the red-head. "You've got a real knock on your head there!"

Sherlock frowned. "I fell from a tree yesterday," he said.

The youngest of the Irregulars, a flaxen-haired lad who was older than Sherlock by only a year, said, "Do you wanta come outside and have fun wiv us?"

Holmes looked at Watson for approval. "Just be careful," Watson cautioned. "And be back in time for lunch."

"Ok," said Sherlock, putting away his crafts quickly. He put on his little hat and big coat before racing down the stairs after the other boys.

Watson chuckled. He hoped that spending time with the other children would be a positive experience for Sherlock. He was certainly growing into fine young man.

Watson shook his head, having to stop his thoughts again. "He is not a child," Watson said to himself. "He is not going to remain a child, at any rate." The doctor sighed and prayed that word would come from Mycroft quickly.


	12. Chapter 12

Marill: Hullo! Tis I, back with a new chapter! ^_^

/

Sherlock spent nearly the whole day befriending the Irregulars. The other children became quite fond of him in the short period of time and taught him several games and rhymes that he was keen on trying himself.

When Mrs. Hudson called for him to come inside, he was soaking wet from diving into mounds of snow. "Sherlock," she complained, "take off those wet clothes and get into a hot bath at once!"

Holmes sat down in the foyer and took off his shoes. A cupful of water fell out of each shoe. "Sorry," he said, looking up at Mrs. Hudson.

"Go on upstairs and tell Dr. Watson that you need a bath," Mrs. Hudson replied. A puddle of water on her floor she could tolerate. When Mr. Holmes spilled a cupful of blood on her carpet, however…

Holmes jogged up the stairs, dripping all over everything. He shed his coat at the top of the stairs and left it there. He swung open the door to the sitting room and saw Watson was dozing off in his chair, the newspaper sitting on his lap.

Holmes smiled a devious little smile. He crept up on Watson slowly, quietly. Then, he sprang like a rabbit into Watson's lap, crinkling the paper and jolting Watson awake. Watson sputtered and sat upright, not knowing what had just fallen on his thighs.

Sherlock stared at him as they made eye contact. The boy mischievously crinkled the paper in his hands even more.

"Holmes," Watson groaned. He tried to look sternly at the boy, but his façade deteriorated into chuckles. After he had composed himself, he picked up Holmes and set him back on the floor. "Why are you so wet?" he asked, his own trousers having been soaked through.

"I was outside," said Holmes plainly.

"Yes?" Watson prompted.

"And now I'm supposed to take a bath," Sherlock pouted.

Watson gave him a look. "You didn't take a bath in all your clothes, did you?"

"No," Sherlock replied, giggling. "I was playing in the snow before. Then I became wet."

Watson smiled. "To the bath with you," he said in his most kingly voice.

Sherlock looked at him for two more seconds before he ran off toward his own room, laughing.

Watson stood up and ran after him. "You're not getting away that easily!" he teased.

/

Marill: Ah, me loves the fluffy times.


	13. Chapter 13

Marill: ARGH! Computer problems, my one weakness…

/

He knew that the boy was somewhere in the house. The child was hiding from him, too afraid of being caught. He crept up the stairs, taking his time so no sound would give him away. He liked having the element of surprise. It would frighten Holmes so much more to be surprised.

He pushed the door to the parlor open slowly, cautiously, his eyes fiendish and alight with expectation. He thoughtfully rubbed his mustache, as he considered which room the boy would be hiding in: his or the doctor's? The shadowy man started for Holmes' room, only to be surprised himself when the boy jumped down from the top of a bookshelf and onto his shoulders.

"Aha! Got you!" Holmes cried. He wrapped his legs around Watson's chest and choked the astonished doctor with his scrawny arms.

"Holmes-Sherlock-stop that!" Watson cried, prying the four-year-old off his neck. "You got me, there's no need to _kill _me." Watson laughed at Holmes' impertinent look.

"I wasn't trying to kill you!" Sherlock protested. "I just wanted to defeat you."

"Well, that you have done, my boy," Watson consented. He sighed, flopping into his armchair.

Holmes ran over to him, pulling at his arm and trying to stand him up again. "No, Watson, it's your turn to hide!" he exclaimed. Watson pulled himself to his feet, only to have Holmes push him from behind toward the doctor's bedroom. "Hide somewhere," Holmes ordered him, his tiny childish voice giving Watson another chuckle. "I'll count to twenty seconds when I go downstairs."

Holmes didn't wait for an agreement. He dashed out of the room, closing the door loudly behind him. Watson had a lot of work to do, but he supposed that one more game of hide and seek wouldn't ruin him.

He ducked behind a tall cabinet and waited. He began to wonder how Holmes had climbed to the top of the eight-foot bookshelf across the room before Mrs. Hudson knocked upon the door with the post.

He thanked her and quietly sorted it. There was a telegraph from Mycroft Holmes that he read immediately.

"Doctor. They are returning. I pray this message reaches you fast enough. You are both in great danger. I will try to return as quickly as possible to assist you.

MH."

Before Watson could process this information, he heard a yelp from downstairs followed by Sherlock shouting "Watson!" Watson gathered his feet underneath him in a mad rush, his leg jerking painfully. The doctor catalogued the next sounds that came from downstairs as he ran to the sitting room door: a cry of pain, then a dull bump against some object, the rustle of fabric and the shuffling of feet, followed by the opening and slamming of the front door.

By the time the foyer was in Watson's view, there was no trace of Sherlock on the first floor of the house. Watson ran down to the door and went outside, his eyes scanning the area frantically for the boy or any suspicious characters.

"MRS. HUDSON!" Watson shouted, his voice echoing all throughout the silent house.

The landlady came scuffling up to him from the kitchen. "Doctor!" she exclaimed. "What is it?"

"He's gone again, Mrs. Hudson," Watson said, his expression fixed into anger. "Stay here. If Mycroft Holmes comes by, tell him what happened and that I'm out looking for him."

/

Marill: Poor lil Holmes, so many insane things happen to you…


	14. Chapter 14

Marill: Yep, it's been forever. I love you all.

/

Watson immediately took a cab to Scotland Yard. He wrung his hands with worry for the entire ride there. He couldn't help but feel that he'd been careless. He'd known that people were after the boy in his charge, but was he honestly to be expected to keep Holmes in his sight every moment?

If he had the chance to start over, that's exactly what he would do.

When Watson arrived at the police headquarters, he was surprised to find that search teams were already forming. Mycroft Holmes was standing in the midst of them, giving details of what he had learned throughout his travels on the continent.

"Dr. Watson," said Mycroft, his expression grave. "I have an idea of where they've taken him. But we don't have much time."

/

Young Sherlock was led through hallways lighted with gas lamps. The floors were concrete and cold. He shivered as his bare feet sent signals of coldness to the rest of his body. A large man had him by the upper arm and he had little choice but to try keeping up. They ultimately stopped at a prison cell. The man unlocked the door with a large key, which he then pocketed.

Sherlock glanced up at the man before beginning to struggle to get free. He definitely didn't want to be locked up again. He scraped and clawed at the arm holding him with his free hand, and attempted to kick him in the shins. The man laughed at him and tossed him effortlessly inside the cell before slamming it shut. Sherlock wound up tripping forward and landing on hands and knees on the hard ground.

A sound from the dark corner of the cell made him gasp. Sherlock squinted to see what or who was in the room with him. He made out the figure of a man, his leg chained to an iron bar. The man looked at him with strong, gray eyes. "So, it's true," said the man. "They really did make you…"

/

Marill: So….short times, I know, but hopefully is hooky enough! Moar soon! :D


	15. Chapter 15

Little Sherlock stared at the man across from him. The man coughed and then cleared his throat. Sherlock didn't think the man was dangerous. He was chained up, after all, and didn't look like he wanted to hurt anyone.

"Who're you?" Sherlock asked.

The man shifted against the wall so that his face was in the light. "My name is Sherlock Holmes," he said. The boy frowned at that. He was very certain he'd never met this man before, and yet he seemed very recognizable.

"What do you mean? Are you my uncle…?"

"No. I am you. We are the same person. They made you out of parts of my blood and some very complicated chemical reactions."

Sherlock watched the older man carefully. His eyes were so familiar and friendly.

"Do you have…memories?" Holmes asked him.

"About what?" asked Sherlock.

"About your…about our childhood?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "You mean before I met Dr. Watson?"

Holmes' eyes lit up. "You've met Watson? Did he…ah, of course. He thinks you're me." Holmes grinned dimly.

"You just said I am," Sherlock reminded him.

"We have to find our way out of here. It is assuredly a bad thing that they've brought us together. I fear that Dr. Gemmel is planning some more experimentation…" Holmes looked at his younger self. "Sherlock, do you have any lock picks stowed away on you?" Holmes asked.

Sherlock shook his head. "They took away all the things I had in my pockets and they even checked my hair." He smiled deviously. "But I did take the guard's key before he threw me in here."

/

Watson and Mycroft rode side by side in a carriage bound for the outer limits of London, all of Scotland Yard at their heels. Mycroft had determined the location of the laboratory that the surgeons were working. Watson prayed that they wouldn't arrive too late to save Holmes.

/

"Stay close," Holmes instructed the boy. "If I remember correctly, we'll make three lefts, then a right, and we'll have to pry open the final door."

Sherlock nodded and grasped onto the older Holmes' shirt, to ensure that they wouldn't be separated in the darkness. The pair crept around two bends in the hallway, silently stalking through the building. At the third bend, Sherlock's ears picked up on footsteps behind them and he ran, urging Holmes along with him by tugging at his shirt.

They came to a skidding stop when they realized they had accidentally run into a dead end. Sherlock was ready to dart off in a different direction when a shadow loomed over him.

"Mr. Holmes," said a deep, throaty voice. "And your little friend. Just where do you think you're going?"

Someone behind the man speaking came forward with a torch. Sherlock could suddenly see the man's face and he screamed. It was the man from his nightmares. The man with the mustache and the dark eyebrows. This was a bad man. A horrible, harmful man. This man had hurt him, and it hadn't been a dream. Sherlock hid behind Holmes' legs, shivering with terror.

But Holmes wasn't afraid. He spoke to the man with a caustic voice, no tremors or worry to sense. "Dr. Gemmel. I was so hoping to be able to speak with you again. This 'treatment' you've prescribed is just not working out. I'm afraid I must decline any further of your methods."

"Well, that is where we disagree, Mr. Holmes," said Dr. Gemmel menacingly. "You're still very, very sick and I'm not finished with you or the child." Holmes put a protective arm behind him and over Sherlock's shoulder, taking a step to the side to cover the little boy with his body.

Dr. Gemmel pulled out a gun. "Come along quietly or I'll shoot you and then do my work on you."

Sherlock could feel Holmes tense, and then things happened far too quickly. Shouting reverberated down the hallway. Dr. Gemmel looked over his shoulder, a look of shock on his face. Sherlock peeked around Holmes' legs to see what was happening. Dr. Gemmel looked back at the Holmeses, grinning evilly. Suddenly, Sherlock's chest was burning and he was thrown back into the wall.

There were a few moments of darkness, and then Watson was hovering over him, his eyes red and his mouth a tight line. "Holmes, you…what happened?" he cried.

Another voice from behind Watson's shoulder answered. "He's been shot, Watson. Someone bring a torch!"

Watson looked behind him. "Holmes? _Holmes?_ What? What in the…"

"I'll explain later, Watson," said Holmes. He was now standing over Sherlock, his expression grave.

Sherlock's eyes filled with tears and he knew. He knew that this was the Holmes that Watson loved and missed and thought Sherlock had been. His eyes fluttered closed as the pain thickened across his chest. Watson and Holmes disappeared and the blackness consumed him.

/

"Two sugars, please, Watson," said Holmes. He sat at their breakfast table, flipping through dozens of old newspapers.

Watson obliged him the sugars and sat back admiring the man across from him. No wounds, save for bruising around his ankle from the heavy chain. He'd apparently been well-cared for, other than the captivity. A week later, it was as if the incident hadn't even occurred in the detective's mind.

"Holmes, I hope you know…if I had been made aware that you were in danger, that you were a prisoner, I would have exhausted every resource at my hands to find you," Watson said.

Holmes didn't even look up from the paper. "I don't doubt it, old man. I can see how you were fooled."

Watson smiled fondly. "Yes, he was rather like a small version of you."

"Well, that's just exactly what he is, Watson," Holmes returned. "Ah, that'll be Mycroft."

Watson raised an eyebrow, then heard the door opening downstairs. The doctor became excited about the visit. He rushed over to open the door to the sitting room.

In popped Little Sherlock, practically throwing himself into Watson's arms. "Dr. Watson!" he cried.

Mycroft was right behind him with a brotherly scowl. "Sherlock, _be careful, _you're going to tear those stitches!"

Watson's expression sobered. "Yes, that's a very delicate area and we can't have it getting infected."

Sherlock smiled, nevertheless. "Mycroft is taking me to the museum today. Then we're going to look at Parliament buildings."

Holmes scoffed and put down the newspaper. "Mycroft, why don't you just let him play with the Irregulars? He's only a child and needs a different kind of stimulation than staring at stone buildings all afternoon."

"Excuse me, brother, but I believe I know what's best for him," Mycroft said. "Besides, we were going to ask Dr. Watson to join us."

Sherlock looked at Watson, eagerly awaiting an answer.

"Sounds marvelous!" Watson exclaimed. "Will you join us, Holmes?"

Holmes picked up his paper again. "I don't believe so Watson, I'm not one to enjoy adventures in babysitting."

Mycroft and Sherlock exchanged a wink. "But aren't you interested in the three missing papers from the Treasury office?" Sherlock asked, innocently.

Holmes nonchalantly put down his paper and finished his tea. "The afternoon air made be good for my cough," he said, putting on his coat in a flash. "Come along, Watson!"

Sherlock grinned. "Yeah, come along, Watson!"

/

Marill: OMG, I can't believe I finally finished this thing. I was erm…distracted by "something", as you can see by my profile. LOL. Anyway, I hope it was obvious enough that Sherlock referred to the little boy and Holmes referred to the man.

So…that's the end! I hope you enjoyed the ride, sorry it took so long to finish. ^.^


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